As if insane weren’t enough

Yours Truly has decided to throw her hat in the ring for National Novel Writing Month (known, somewhat annoyingly, as ‘NaNoWriMo’). So that means that Yours Truly might not be around online as much as she usually is (read: very nearly constantly). Or, it might mean she’s online more than she usually is (totally constantly). It depends.

We’ll see where this path leads.

40,000 words is an awful lot of words. I don’t think I use that many words in a month of Loft evenings.

Well, maybe. If Cheese Boy is making me tell stories just to see him laugh so hard he cries and crawls away begging for me to ‘stop, stop, please. It hurts so much’. That’s what life is about, Cheese Boy.

I read a book once, which I shamefully have forgotten the author AND title of, even though I interviewed the author and thoroughly enjoyed the book…he’s an easterner. Pffft. No, it’s gone. Anyway, it was about a woman as of riper years who was in hospital or in respite care or something to that effect, and the number one thing I remember from that story, along with how beautiful and elegaic it was, is that the 80-something-year-old female narrator talked frequently about how the last thing to go isn’t your hearing or your sight, but your sex drive. She kept talking about how that was something she missed the most about her husband, who’d died a number of years earlier. She talked about how she would watch young men now and think of how they made her feel when she was their age.

Cheese Boy is like that, you know. He makes me think about being fifteen or twenty years younger. Not in a disturbing way, I hope. But in the way where you’re watching him or talking to him, and you’re thinking, ‘if you had walked into my sphere of reference when I was your age, Cheese Boy, I’d have spent many a long, lonely night pining for you. I may have even written poetry. Or, worse yet, Poetry.’ I may even have invoked the unholy muse of getting you drunk on absynthe and Snakebite in Black. To lure you into my lair, as the spider to the fly, and all that. Or, much more likely, I would have, as mentioned earlier, pined. Pined and sighed and sighed and pined and thought about all the lovely things we could do together if only you weren’t so damned pretty.

I do hope you take that as a compliment, Cheese Boy, and not some kind of bizarre ranting from a dirty, dirty cougar who really ought to be paying more attention to National Novel Writing Month than she pays attention to thinking about the time-space continuum as it relates to you.